Composing Amelia
Page 1
What people are saying about …
COMPOSING AMELIA
“What a phenomenal story! I can’t think of a more accurate way to describe this novel. Strobel touches on so many aspects of real life. Composing Amelia gives readers a glimpse into varying emotional landscapes. It shows effective and ineffective communication, uncovers scars from dysfunctional families, exposes discord due to different marriage goals, shows how guilt and suppressed pain often lead to out-of-control depression, outlines couples searching for a balance between their needs and their dreams, exposes the agony of secrets, and explores the definition of genuine faith. Strobel is a master at exploring the inner workings of the heart. I love the way she writes her characters.”
Michelle Sutton, author of over a dozen
novels, including It’s Not About Me and
the best-selling Danger at the Door
“Alison Strobel keeps getting better and better. Composing Amelia is a novel I consider to be a lasting work of fiction. Within its pages, Strobel plumbs the depths of emotion in a subject fraught with prejudice and misinformation within the church. With characters your heart will embrace, it is a story of pride and depression without being depressing. From the first page until the last, I was caught up in Marcus and Amelia’s world, unwilling to stop reading. A beautiful love story, you’ll see God’s grace through unconditional love. Alison Strobel is quickly proving she has what it takes to be a best-selling author, book after book. Novel Journey and I give it our highest recommendation. It is a five-star must-read. Bravo, Alison!”
Ane Mulligan, editor of Novel Journey,
www.noveljourney.blogspot.com
Praise for …
REINVENTING RACHEL
“A fascinating story of one woman’s search for God, of falling and rising and finding that we’re never alone. In Rachel’s struggles, many readers will recognize their own.”
Lisa Wingate, best-selling author of
Beyond Summer and Never Say Never
“This honestly written book is a must-read for any survivors of ‘churchianity.’ Realistic and transparent, Rachel Westing will strike a familiar chord with anyone who’s ever felt disenfranchised with contemporary ‘Christian’ culture. I lent this book to a friend—and she called it a life-altering story. Way to go, Alison!”
Melody Carlson, author of The Four Lindas
series and 86 Bloomberg Place series
“Reinventing Rachel is one of the most emotionally powerful and insightful books I’ve read in years. The author’s intimate understanding of spiritual truth and the frailties of the human heart is evident in this well-written story. The conflict was so genuine and believable that it took my breath away and moved me to tears. God is really going to use this book to reach the hearts of people who are floundering in their faith.”
Michelle Sutton, author of over a dozen
novels, including It’s Not About Me and
the best-selling Danger at the Door
“Reinventing Rachel is the story of a young woman who finds herself questioning her faith and engaging in dangerous behaviors when her relationships are torn apart. Author Alison Strobel draws the reader into Rachel’s world where, after spiraling into disbelief and brokenness, she begins the uphill, grace-filled journey back to God and a life punctuated by hope.”
Tamara Leigh, American Christian Fiction
Writers’ “Book of the Year” author of
Splitting Harriet and Nowhere, Carolina
“Alison Strobel delivers a tsunami of emotion in Reinventing Rachel. I haven’t read another book that grew with as much intensity and depth. Deceptively innocent in its first chapters, Reinventing Rachel will grab your heart and hold it captive, leaving you breathless until the end. Novel Journey and I give it a high recommendation.”
Ane Mulligan, editor of Novel Journey,
www.noveljourney.blogspot.com
“Alison Strobel’s novel depicts the painful unraveling of a self-righteous soul—and her reascent up a daunting spiritual mountain. Strobel’s passion for her character’s journey and pursuit of truth comes through loud and clear on the page. For every reader who has doubted God through troubled times, this book is for you.”
Rene Gutteridge, author of
Listen and Never the Bride
COMPOSING AMELIA
Published by David C Cook
4050 Lee Vance View
Colorado Springs, CO 80918 U.S.A.
David C Cook Distribution Canada
55 Woodslee Avenue, Paris, Ontario, Canada N3L 3E5
David C Cook U.K., Kingsway Communications
Eastbourne, East Sussex BN23 6NT, England
David C Cook and the graphic circle C logo
are registered trademarks of Cook Communications Ministries.
All rights reserved. Except for brief excerpts for review purposes,
no part of this book may be reproduced or used in any form
without written permission from the publisher.
The website addresses recommended throughout this book are offered as a resource to you. These websites are not intended in any way to be or imply an endorsement on the part of David C Cook, nor do we vouch for their content.
This story is a work of fiction. All characters and events are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is coincidental.
Unless otherwise noted, all Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by Biblica, Inc™. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com.
LCCN 2011928812
ISBN 978-1-4347-6773-8
eISBN 978-1-4347-0419-1
© 2011 Alison Strobel
The author is represented by MacGregor Literary.
The Team: Don Pape, Nicci Jordan Hubert, Nick Lee, Renada Arens, and Karen Athen
Cover Design: Amy Konyndyk
Cover Photo: iStock 13255924; 8841420
First Edition 2011
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Nicci Jordan Hubert: I feel like I owe you both an apology (didn’t I promise not to do this to you again?!) and a coauthorship credit. Once again, you kicked both my butt and my story’s, and made us both better. Thank you for your encouragement and support, and for still wanting to work with me after two very messy books.
Rachel Hauck: Thank you for playing therapist to both me and my characters. Without your help I wouldn’t have figured either of them out, and I probably would have gone loonier than Amelia’s mom. You saved the story and my sanity!
The women who shared their stories: Johanna Verburg, Kimberly C. Simpkins, Amy G., Catherine Boyd, Jodie LaRiviere, Erin, and Margaret W. Roney. Thank you for your honesty and openness. Because of you, Amelia’s story rings true.
Lisa Klein, Kari Holt, and Veronica Huffines: Thank you for sharing your NICU and preemie-care experiences.
Dr. Kate Hrach: Thank you for making sure I didn’t do anything medically impossible.
Dan, aka Husband of the Year: Thank you, babe, for everything. I love you more than I can say.
My parents, Lee and Leslie: Thank you for everything you do for my family. None of this would happen without you.
My Creator, Guide, and Savior: Thank You for the ability and opportunity to write. I am humbled to be a part of Your plan.
For Jen
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
> Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Epilogue
AfterWords
Reader’s Guide
Author Interview
CHAPTER 1
The bus ride to LA Café was a soul-sucking experience.
Amelia Sheffield’s head bounced with each pothole as she attempted to doze. She’d never been a morning person, but her boss didn’t seem to care. The shop opened at six, and if she wanted a paycheck, she needed to be there in time to get the bread baking and the sandwich fixings organized for the crowd that picked up lunches on the way to work. Never a big meat eater, she found chicken and shredded turkey and sliced roast beef even more difficult to handle at five thirty in the morning.
She stepped off the bus at Sunset and Echo Park, then walked the last three blocks to the shop. LA wasn’t a pretty city at any time of day, but at least at o-dark-thirty it was a bit more calm. She’d walked this route long enough now to have figured out the regulars and locals, and they exchanged sleepy nods as they passed on the sidewalk. Familiar faces, friendly conversation—it was all that kept her at this job. Well, that and the need to eat and pay rent.
When the manager switched on the Open sign and unlocked the front door, Amelia gathered her resolve and wiped the mope off her face. She began to greet the customers as though they were close personal friends.
“You way too chipper, chica,” Maria told her. “Ain’t gonna find a producer in here, you know. They all eat downtown.”
“Touché,” Amelia admitted. “But either way, I can’t stand the thought of grunting my way through the day and never actually talking with anyone.” Then, in a lowered voice, “This job is bad enough without my attitude making it worse.”
“You saying my attitude is bad?”
Amelia grinned and popped Maria on the shoulder. “Your attitude? Naw, chica, you’re the picture of optimism.” That started Maria laughing.
But despite her best efforts, Amelia could feel the creativity draining from her blood every day that she punched in and then out again eight hours later. Every day, she would drag herself to the bus stop and slouch against the shelter, feeling isolated despite the people around her, and she would pray that today would be the day she got an offer for the job she really wanted.
To her surprise, her husband, Marcus, was home when she let herself in to their fourth-floor studio, his hair still wet from what was likely a post-jog shower. She hardly ever saw him during the day; he worked so much. Between his tutoring jobs, his surf instructing, and his part-time shifts behind the register at Target, he was rarely home and awake for more than an hour or two at the most. Going for a run was one of the ways Marcus blew off steam.
“Hey, you’re home,” she said, leaning against the door and breathing hard. “Can you believe the elevator is broken—again?” She shuffled in, flopped onto the couch, and groaned. “I am so tired.”
“You’ve got to stop going to bed so late.”
“I know, I know.”
He leaned down and kissed her cheek. “Mmm, the heavenly scent of fresh bread and mustard.”
She smiled. “Eau de hoagie?”
“Bottle it, babe, you’ll make a mint.”
“Don’t I wish.” She leaned over, stretching her back. “Remind me again that we’re not just killing time.”
“We’re not just killing time.”
Amelia sat up and cocked her head to the side. “Yeah, I don’t buy it.”
Marcus gave her a small frown. “His ways are not our ways, love. And neither is His timing. We can’t see what He’s orchestrating behind the scenes.”
“But if God exists outside of time, then He doesn’t have any timing at all, right?” She couldn’t help playing devil’s advocate, especially when he got all pastorly on her. It triggered a need to prove she was just as smart as he was, even if her theology wasn’t as polished. “In which case, maybe He just doesn’t realize how long we’ve waited.”
Marcus laughed. “Not as long as some.”
She sighed. “Yeah, you’re right. Sorry I’m so impatient.”
“Don’t apologize to me.”
She looked to the ceiling. “Sorry I’m so impatient. It’s just that I’d much rather be, you know, playing piano like I’ve been training to do for the last ten years, rather than building sub sandwiches. But please don’t take this as a prayer for patience. It’s just an apology.”
Marcus snickered. “Nice.”
“Hey, it’s honest. He likes honest, right?” She stood. “I’m gonna take a shower.”
“And wash away all that delicious cold-cut goodness?”
She laughed. “Sorry, babe. I know how much you love your wife smelling like the deli case.”
He wagged his eyebrows, then looked at the clock and sighed. “Guess I’ll see you later, then; I’m leaving in ten.”
She said farewell with a lingering kiss that made her shiver. “Just a little preview of later tonight,” she said with a wink.
“Looking forward to it.” He kissed the small diamond ring and wedding band on her finger, and she turned with a smile for the bathroom, humming Mozart and thinking happy thoughts of her husband. Despite the uncertainty of their futures, Marcus’s confidence that God would take care of them comforted her. She loved the stability his faith gave their lives.
But alone in the steam, she prayed more seriously. I wish I knew what You were waiting for, she thought toward heaven. It would make it easier. And I wish I had Marcus’s faith. And patience. I probably should be praying for patience, huh? Even if I could just get some studio work or something, I’d feel so much better. This sandwich gig makes my existence feel positively meaningless.
As she showered, her thoughts bounced from one thing to another—from Marcus and what their night held, to the motif she’d found herself humming on the bus and had meant to chart at home, then to the call she owed her best friend, Jill—which sent her thoughts to the two years they spent together at Juilliard and the double wedding they’d shared six months ago. Eventually her mind made its way to the audition she’d had two days ago. She’d done well, and had been sure she’d get a callback, but so far she hadn’t heard anything. Hadn’t they said they’d contact everyone in a day or two? Maybe the whole gig had fallen apart. There were already scores of theater troupes in LA—was there really a need for one that only did musicals? For her sake, she hoped so. She prayed she’d land the position—it would keep her playing and performing and practicing for when something bigger came along.
She left the shower with a plan in place for the short time she had before leaving for job number two: tutoring piano students at the community center. Tugging a comb through her long hair, she hummed the motif again as she walked to the bedroom to get new clothes. With her mind on other things, she returned to the bathroom and checked her reflection in the mirror—and stood there in surprise. For the second time that week she couldn’t avoid noticing the striking resemblance: her mother looking back at her.
She pulled her damp hair into a ponytail to dispel the similarities. Maybe I should get a haircut or something, she thought. Maybe dye it. Her fingers fumbled the elastic ponytail band twice before she managed to pull it around her thick red locks. To further mark the distinction, she applied only mascara and a quick sweep of blush. She couldn’t remember ever seeing her mom without full makeup.
Amelia went to the keyboard to chart the motif but found she couldn’t concentrate. She cursed her mother silently and put the pencil down so she could play instead. She needed to refocus her head, distract it from the memories recalled by seeing her mother’s visage in the mirror. She mentally flipped through her repertoire and selected a simple, calming Brahms piece, one she’d learned after her mother’s disappearance three years ago. Playing anything her mother had heard would only make things worse. She played from memory, eyes often closed as she pictured the music and called upon the memory of the dozens of other times she’d played the song. Soon the fam
iliar piece had her centered again, and her thoughts returned once more to her earlier prayers.
This was what she was meant to do. Not refill mayo containers, not walk an eight-year-old through finger exercises and “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.” She was meant to sit behind a sleek grand piano on a stage somewhere playing the compositions of masters. When she played piano and imagined herself on stage, her soul seemed to open up. In her more honest moments, she admitted to herself that it was the only time she ever felt that God really did exist.
Thoughts of her mother pushed aside, Amelia glanced at the clock on the DVD player and sighed. Time to leave. At least this job let her put her talents to use, even if it was with a bunch of uninterested kids.
She arrived home four hours later, damp from a surprise winter shower that struck on her walk back from the community center. The apartment was dark and empty; Marcus was working until ten at his third job. She hated how much they both worked—Marcus especially. Enough already with these dead-end jobs, she prayed as she hung up her dripping coat and kicked her shoes to the corner beside the front door.
It wasn’t until she’d changed into dry clothes and toweled her hair that she noticed the blinking light on her cell. The ringer was still off from her lessons. She flipped it open and hit the voice mail button, then opened the fridge to pull some dinner together.
“Amelia, hi, this is Ross Gunther. I wanted to see if you could come back for a second audition on Friday at eleven. Give me a call.” He rattled off a number, but Amelia wasn’t listening. She was too busy jumping around the kitchen.
She dialed Marcus’s number, knowing she’d get his voice mail since he was tutoring but too excited to wait. “Guess what, guess what, guess what?” she sang into the phone. “I got the callback!” She shut the cell and let out a squeal, then closed the fridge and sat down at her keyboard. The piece she’d used for her audition came to her first, and she played it at double time until she switched mid-measure to Mozart’s “Alla Turca” to accommodate her excitement. Maybe this was the break she’d been waiting for. It was hardly a prestigious position—heck, the troupe was still forming; it technically wasn’t even in existence yet—but all you needed in LA was to be seen. Or heard, in her case. And if she got this job, who knew what contacts she might make?